


& are we there yet?

by inconocible



Series: swimming in sevens, slow dancing in seconds [3]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: 5000 words of Kanan and Ezra holding a baby what's not to love, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Kanan Jarrus is a Great Dad, Passing mention of child slavery, Passing mention of violence, Post-Episode: s02e10 The Future of the Force, Touch-starved Ezra Bridger, discussion of childhood trauma, non-graphic description of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: He shakes his head at his own foolishness. What is he thinking? He’s barely managed to keep Ezra safe from the threat of the Inquisitors, of Vader, barely managed to keep himself safe. He and Ezra both have the scars to prove it. They could never bring a 10-month-old into this family, into this fight.And, anyway, even if it were within the realm of possibility, he knows, deep in his heart, Hera would never be on board.Still, a small part of him counters, wistful. Still, in another life, maybe they…





	& are we there yet?

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> & it won’t be too much  
>  cause this is too much  
> cause this is too much for me to hold  
> this is too much for me to hold  
> [home, home, home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1ipAAyBl-Q)  
> 

“It’s okay,” Kanan says, for what is probably the three trillionth time in the past twelve hours. “It’s okay.” Three trillion and one.

He sighs. His feet are tired and his arms ache and he’s starting to need to hit the fresher. But every time he’s tried to put Alora down, she’s started to scream again, so he’s been holding her pretty much the whole evening.

He shifts her from his left side to his right, his shoulder pauldron long since discarded, walking the same path he has walked around the galley for the better part of the night cycle.

Kanan runs his hand over Alora’s back, holding her close. She’s been fussy all evening, and, honestly, after the day they’ve had, Kanan can’t blame her. He feels her fear and confusion openly in the Force, her connection remarkably strong. Earlier, while changing her into a fresh diaper, she managed to knock a glass of water off the counter three feet away just by the sheer force of her tantrum, screaming and crying and contorting her body dramatically.

It’s no wonder she was tagged this early by the Inquisitors. Kanan probably could have felt her Force sensitivity two systems over, had he been bothering to look. Her Force signature shines pure and light, even in her temper.

He holds her, and he rubs her back, and he wonders…

Kanan trusts Ahsoka, trusts that she believes her contact will be able to handle Alora, to shield her, but, still. He holds Alora closer, a moment of deep worry passing over him, thinking about the children who didn’t make it, thinking about how close this child had been to not making it. He wonders, what if he, what if _they_ …

He shakes his head at his own foolishness. What is he thinking? He’s barely managed to keep Ezra safe from the threat of the Inquisitors, of Vader, barely managed to keep _himself_ safe. He and Ezra both have the scars to prove it. They could never bring a 10-month-old into this family, into this fight.

And, anyway, even if it were within the realm of possibility, he knows, deep in his heart, Hera would never be on board.

Still, a small part of him counters, wistful. Still, in another life, maybe they…

Alora is calmer now than she was earlier, but not by much, and any deviation in Kanan’s movement threatens to bring her temper roaring back to life. Kanan has paused briefly in his walk around the galley, lost in his thoughts, and she stirs in his arms. Before long, she’s gnashing her teeth and yelling at him, snot and tears running down her chubby cheeks, her delicate eyelashes clumped together by moisture. He sighs and starts walking again.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he whispers, soothing nothingness in time with his steps around the galley, bouncing her lightly against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, it’s okay.” Three trillion and two.

-

(Though there have been many missions over the years, some have taken longer to fade, lingering just under the surface of Kanan’s memories like old bruises.

Once, only about a year after Kanan joined the crew of the _Ghost_ – back in the days when it was just Hera and Chopper and him – they’d taken a job for one of Hera’s shadowy contacts. Their mission was to intercept a gang of pirates – and their cargo. That was all Hera had said, pirates and cargo. Kanan never found out if she had known the truth before accepting the mission.

In retrospect, she probably had known, but he sure as shit hadn’t. He still recalls the shock that had shaken him to his core when he’d finally gotten to the ship’s cargo bay: Kids. The cargo was kids. Little kids, the smallest not quite even a year old, of many different species, in cages and containers like animals.

Hera had been particularly merciless on that op, had opted for sneaking into the crew quarters to slit the throat of every single pirate herself, leaving Kanan to try to defend – and comfort – the children on his own. They had set the appropriate beacon and hightailed it before Hera’s contact showed up to pick the cargo up, much to Hera’s relief – and Kanan’s discomfort.

He had wanted to argue, had wanted to ask his captain why she’d so forcefully rejected his perfectly reasonable suggestion to at least stay until someone showed up – to make sure it was the right people who were showing up – but the moment the _Phantom_ had docked with the _Ghost,_ Hera had sprinted without a word for the fresher, and Kanan, alarmed, had followed her, had witnessed her blood-stained hands clutching the rim of the toilet like a lifeline as she fell to her knees, retching violently.

“Holy kriff,” Kanan had said, his argument forgotten, “Hera –“ and he had started forward with a hand stretched out, but she’d jerked away from his touch in a way she never had before.

“Don’t touch me!” she had exclaimed, too fierce, tears falling rapidly, bending over to heave into the toilet again.

“Okay,” he had said, “okay, okay,” but he hadn’t left her alone, either, hovering worriedly in the doorway until she’d asked him to leave. When the door had closed behind him, he’d been unable to walk away, sitting on the floor of the hallway, listening through the closed door to her sobs.

Later, she had had a glass of water and a piece of toast, and he had rested his arm carefully on the back of the dejarik booth, and she had scooted closer, had laid her head against his shoulder, taking, for the first time, the comfort offered, a new closeness between them that she hadn’t allowed until that moment. Back in those days, any idea of a relationship past that of pilot and gunslinger was just a glimmer of a thought in Kanan’s mind, their cautious friendship still forming.

In retrospect, maybe it had partially started there, sitting hip to hip in the dejarik booth, Hera whispering her secrets into the space between his collarbone and his ear, telling him:

About Ryloth, about the war, about the Republic, about the Empire; about the slavers who came to steal children, about her father teaching her to use a weapon when she turned three; about the mourning songs of the mothers of the infants who died for lack of nutrition, or who were born dead, two of them her younger sisters. About how even the idea of bringing a child into this universe –

Kanan had moved a protective palm to the back of her head, experimentally pressing the warmth of his hand into the warmth of the base of her lek, and, when she had not pulled away, had tugged her in closer, had let her cry into his shirt.

“I know,” he had said, his chin resting on the top of her head, his other arm loosely encircling her waist, “I know, I’m sorry,” because he did, because he was. Because, in a way, all of the children of his people were dead – or worse – too.)

-

Alora has finally calmed into a light sleep, all cried out for now. Kanan can feel exhaustion radiating from her. He checks the chrono – at least eight more hours until the rendezvous with Ahsoka’s contact.

Kanan chances sitting down, easing slowly into the dejarik booth. The baby stirs, but doesn’t wake. At least he can give his feet a break, he thinks.

He sighs and settles in, trying to get comfortable, Alora cradled against his chest and shoulder, trying to ignore the fact that he kind of needs to take a piss. He can hold it, has held it longer and for situations far worse than this. He knows, from fuzzy, long-forgotten experience, that, now that she’s asleep, he pretty much isn’t allowed to put her down without inviting a tantrum. (As if he’d really been allowed to put her down earlier.)

He turns his head against hers, pressing his nose into her crown of dark, downy hair, breathing deeply. Somehow, by some strange force of the universe, as dirty and hungry and tired and stressed as she is, her smell is something his brain associates with the cleanest, calmest infants in the crèche, and it transports him, soothes him in a way he hasn’t felt in at least 20 years. It feels like being six years old again, like taking his turn helping the crèche masters watch over the youngest younglings, like sitting in a comfortable rocking chair and being taught how to support a baby’s head, how to find the pureness of the living Force in their souls. He closes his eyes, drifting in the living Force, letting his mind touch it in her bright Force signature. It feels good, pure, like going home.

Home. He hasn’t thought of the Jedi temple as home in so many long years. These days, home is this ship, is these _people._

Kanan reaches out farther into the living Force, delighting in the simple, gentle brush of his mind against each of their signatures. Home is Hera, serious in the pilot’s seat, combing through star charts, looking for the right place to build the Rebellion’s new base. Home is Chopper, his electronic presence familiar to Kanan’s mind after all these years despite his lack of presence in the living Force, working on upgrading the ship’s long-range comms, listening to Hera’s ideas as she works. Home is Sabine, curled up in bed and reading a novel on her datapad, at the edge of falling asleep. Home is Zeb, the only being on the ship sleeping more soundly than Alora right now, snoring contentedly on the bottom bunk. Home is Ezra, sleeping fitfully on the top bunk, caught in a dream, and Kanan pushes an impression of calmness through their bond, making a mental note to check on him later. His mind drifts to Ezra’s, to the next lesson he needs to plan for Ezra, to all the things he knows Ezra is capable of learning, to the depth of his pride and love for Ezra, to…

Kanan’s mind, open to the living Force in a depth he usually can’t achieve so easily, immensely comforted by the presence of Alora’s signature alongside those of the rest of the crew – his _family –_ drifts, and slides, lazily, into sleep.

-

Kanan jerks awake, and Alora jerks in his arms, too, glaring up at him accusatorily for a long moment.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, clearing his throat, reaching out in the Force for the feeling that woke him up, trying to take a quick inventory of his surroundings. Nothing feels immediately _wrong._ He needs a glass of water, and he _really_ needs to use the fresher, but neither of those things are what –

Ezra.

He feels Ezra’s distress as though a signal beacon has been lit in their bond. He turns his attention there, sensing a profound sadness, and he frowns. _Ezra?_ he thinks, _I’m right here_ , and he feels Ezra’s Force signature flare more brightly in their bond, reaching for Kanan’s, winding around it briefly, revealing nothing about his circumstances but a desire to be closer.

 _I’m here_ , Kanan thinks, but he feels Ezra pull back.

 _Bad dream_ , Ezra projects. _It’s okay._

Kanan projects a general sense of disbelief, and of acceptance, the complicated idea that just because they’ve learned how to better control their bond and the overlap of their feelings doesn’t mean they have to always hold themselves separate, but Ezra has withdrawn, sadness lingering in the bond in his wake.

Kanan sighs and glances up at the chrono. Only a couple hours have passed, and the ship is deep into the night cycle. Everyone else is asleep, serene in the Force, the _Ghost_ completely silent as it glides through hyperspace.

Kanan really needs to pee.

But Alora has snuggled back into his chest, sliding back to sleep. Damn.

 _Ezra_ , he thinks, nudging at their bond.

 _I’m fine,_ Ezra zings back. Kanan frowns again.

 _Well, I’m not,_ he projects, annoyed. _Help me, I’m being oppressed by a youngling._

He’s not sure if he’s picturing or truly feeling Ezra rolling his eyes. Maybe both.

 _Come on, just hold her for five minutes, stars’ sake_ , and he’s getting annoyed, but finally he hears the soft thump of Ezra’s feet on the floor, the swish of the door of his and Zeb’s room, the huff of exasperation as he walks down the hall.

“Kanan,” he starts in a low voice that somehow carries down the hall, mindful of the others sleeping but still whining before he even reaches the galley, “I don’t wanna hold her.” He appears in the door, his hair poking out at odd angles from sleep.

“Five minutes,” Kanan says, “you can do five minutes.”

“Ugh,” Ezra groans. “She’s gonna wake up and scream at me.”

“Ezra,” Kanan says, his annoyance growing along with his awareness of his bladder. “Just hold her.”

Ezra huffs. “Pypey didn’t like me at all.”

Kanan tries to look past his own annoyance, to piece together Ezra’s apprehension of holding Alora and the profound sadness he was radiating not five minutes ago. “Ezra, you did great today,” Kanan says, reaching for patience. “It wasn’t your fault that Pypey was scared.”

Ezra scowls and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t know,” he grumbles, a wave of self-doubt washing over him nearly visibly.

“Ezra,” Kanan says again, shaking his head, smiling fondly. This kid. “You’re _strong_ in the living Force, stronger naturally than I am. I have to work _hard_ to be able to connect like you can. You’ll get along great.” He pauses, thinking briefly about Ezra’s behavior on the mission. “Though you might need to learn how to properly hold an infant.”

Ezra doesn’t have a response, just stands before Kanan with his arms folded and an uncertain scowl on his face.

“Come on, just hold her for me,” Kanan says.

He stands and slides out of the booth, his back and legs protesting. Alora frowns up at him unhappily as he walks over to Ezra.

“Fine,” Ezra mutters, reaching for her.

“Ezra,” Kanan counsels. “Find your center. Reach out and feel her in the living Force, feel her presence. Let your signature touch hers.” He hands her over, wrapping her legs securely around Ezra’s hip. “One hand here,” he murmurs, moving Ezra’s right hand to the small of Alora’s back, his right arm supporting her bottom, “and one hand here,” he finishes, moving Ezra’s left hand to the back of Alora’s neck. “Calm,” he says, stretching his arms over his head, bending his back slightly, sighing against the stiffness in his muscles. “Be easy. Connect with her in the living Force.”

“How do you _know_ all of this?” Ezra asks.

Kanan shrugs as he turns for the fresher. “Once a youngling, always a youngling,” he says over his shoulder, one foot already in the hall.

-

Five minutes later, Kanan has used the fresher and brushed his teeth and fixed his ponytail and he feels much more human, though still tired. Turning back toward the galley, he’s half-surprised he hasn’t heard Alora crying at all, and even more surprised once he walks in to find Ezra sitting more or less where he had been, in the middle of the dejarik booth, his eyelids low and Alora resting comfortably in the crook of his right arm, her cheek on his shoulder, his left hand running over her hair.

“Well?” Kanan asks as he walks back in, thinking of tea, crossing the room to the cooking area.

“We’re good,” Ezra answers softly, his voice heavy with an emotion Kanan can’t quite name, the echo of sadness lingering in their bond.

“Okay,” Kanan says. “Want anything? Tea?”

“Nah,” Ezra says.

“Glass of water?”

Ezra nods. “Yeah.”

“You got it,” Kanan answers.

He fills the electric kettle and sets it on its base, takes the canister of tea from the cabinet and measures the leaves into a mug. He fills a glass with water, pulls the jar of electrolyte powder from another cabinet and holds it up for Ezra’s approval, glancing over at him, asking with a raised eyebrow and the impression of the question in their bond.

“If we can spare extra,” Ezra says.

Kanan rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “For you, always.” He measures some of the powder into the water, mixes it with a spoon.

(Kanan doesn’t like thinking about the period in Ezra’s life when nutrition meant stealing or begging enough calories to stay alive, meant hunger and an absence of vaccines, medicine, vitamins, electrolytes. Ezra is slowly getting a bit taller, his shoulders filling out, but he’s small for his age, and Kanan always tries to make a point to get extra nutrients into Ezra if he can: Seconds helpings of meals, fresh fruits and vegetables if they can get them, electrolyte powder after a physically intense day, vitamins when the food in the pantry runs low enough that they have to manage on protein bars for a few days. He doesn’t like to think about how much he needed someone to do the same for him, when he was Ezra’s age, about how nobody was around to do it; about how he’s determined as hell to see Ezra grow taller, fill out some.)

The water boils and the kettle clicks off. Kanan pours it into his mug and picks up both the mug and Ezra’s glass, making his way to the dejarik booth, settling in at the end. He slides the nutrient-rich water over to Ezra, blows a breath across the steam curling off of his mug, takes an experimental sip of tea. Ezra shifts his hold on Alora to free his dominant hand to pick up the glass.

A long moment passes in a comfortable silence.

Ezra drains his glass and sets it on the table, shifting his hold on Alora again.

“Thanks,” he says, not much louder than a whisper.

Kanan smiles. “And you didn’t even want to hold her,” he says, teasing.

“Guess I changed my mind,” Ezra says.

Ezra closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the booth. Kanan finishes his tea, puts the mug and Ezra’s water glass in the sink and settles back into the booth, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, watching Ezra hold Alora, who has gone back to sleep.

Long, comfortable, silent minutes pass, and Kanan wonders if Ezra’s fallen asleep, too.

“ ‘m not asleep,” Ezra murmurs, catching Kanan’s thought through their bond. “ ‘m in the Force.” He yawns.

“Mm,” Kanan hums. He reaches for the living Force, and he finds Ezra there, his signature curled around Alora’s, sadness still lingering. “You two connected easily,” he observes.

“The living Force is so strong in her. The Light is so strong. There’s no trace of darkness at all,” Ezra says, quiet, reverent. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt in another being.” He sighs. “I wish we didn’t have to – I mean, I know we can’t keep her, I just –“

“I know,” Kanan says.

Another long moment passes.

“Was it always like this?” Ezra asks.

Kanan lifts his chin from his hand. “What?”

“This,” Ezra says, “the Force – was it like this in the Jedi temple?” He opens his eyes and turns them on Kanan, inquisitive, bright, even in his fatigue. “Being around other Force-sensitive beings? The other kids you grew up with? Did it always feel this… good?”

“Sometimes,” Kanan says. “When a youngling turned six, they started to learn to shield their minds from other beings, to block out the noise, to limit their attachments. But, they also started helping out with the youngest younglings, caring for them, learning to recognize the living Force in others through them. The crèche was… a place of peace.”

“Wow,” Ezra says. “I wish – I wish I had gotten to be there.”

“I do, too,” Kanan says.

It’s been so long since he’s thought of these things, and it hurts, Force, it _hurts_ : Thinking about how Ezra should, by all rights, have been entering the crèche just about a year after Kanan’s apprenticeship began, how the Force could have brought them together there, master and Padawan, the way it should have been. He can barely picture, in his mind’s eye, Ezra, in younglings’ robes, learning how to meditate in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, instead of learning how to steal food to stay alive. Everything hurts, thinking about Ezra’s childhood and about his own, about how all those younglings he used to help care for are probably dead now, about how –

Kanan feels a burst of grief and longing and sadness from Ezra, and he winces. “Ah, sorry,” Kanan says. “I’m sorry, Ezra, I didn’t mean to –“

“It’s not you,” Ezra says.

Kanan raises a suspicious eyebrow.

“I mean, I _can_ tell that you’re sad,” Ezra concedes. “But that’s not why _I’m_ sad. At least not all why.”

“What’s wrong?” Kanan asks.

Ezra sighs heavily. “The past few days, I’ve been having this dream… I can’t even tell you what it’s about, just that it’s really sad. I wake up feeling like something’s disappearing forever.”

Kanan tilts his head to one side and then to the other, reflecting back on the profound sadness he felt from Ezra earlier in the evening. “The Force moves in mysterious ways,” he says.

“I don’t know,” Ezra says. He shakes his head. “If it’s the Force, I don’t know what it’s trying to say.”

“Just keep listening,” Kanan says.

Ezra shifts his hold on Alora, slumps down a bit in the booth, pressing his nose into Alora’s hair much like Kanan did earlier. Kanan feels Ezra’s mood recede somewhat, feels a sense of comfort and calm wash over him.

A quiet moment passes.

Ezra yawns. “This is nice,” he says, fatigue slurring his words.

Kanan hums a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. He’s getting tired again, has been weighing the merits of napping here versus trying to squeeze Ezra and Alora into his bunk.

“Do you think,” Ezra starts cautiously, “the people taking her will make sure they hold her enough?”

Kanan frowns. “I’m sure they will,” he says.

“People forget,” Ezra says.

“Who would forget to hold an infant?” Kanan says.

“I don’t know,” Ezra says. “It’s easy to forget about a kid that doesn’t have parents.”

Kanan’s chest feels suddenly tight.

“You would know, huh,” he says, and he senses a resurgence of that profound sadness again in their bond, but he can’t tell if it’s coming from Ezra or from within himself. Maybe both.

“Yeah,” Ezra says. He takes a deep breath in and a long one out. “You guys touch me more now than anyone did for a long time.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Kanan asks.

“No,” Ezra says quickly. “It’s good. It’s really good. I hope she ends up with people like you guys. I just wish –“ He sighs.

Kanan reaches for him in their bond, finding him vulnerable and tired and unguarded, affected deeply by his melancholy mood and by his wonder at the pureness of Alora’s Force signature.

“What, kiddo?” he asks, pushing openness and love at their bond.

“I wish you guys knew how much it means,” he says softly. “When you touch my shoulder, or when Hera hugs me, or when Sabine messes up my hair, or, or even when Zeb puts me in a headlock, it’s – I – I missed that so much, growing up.” He takes a shuddering breath in, his emotions boiling over into their bond. “I don’t want her to grow up like I did,” he finishes. “I wish she could have what I have now, with you.”

“Ezra,” Kanan breathes.

He slides over, and he lays his left arm on the back of the dejarik booth, and Ezra tucks into him, hip to hip, pressing his shoulder under Kanan’s, leaning his ear against Kanan’s chest. He feels Ezra in the living Force, his Force signature seeking Kanan’s out, clinging to it, and Kanan wraps around him in his mind.

It feels like going home.

“Come here, kiddo,” Kanan says, his voice cracking, his throat tight. Kanan’s left hand falls to Ezra’s upper left arm; Ezra snuggles impossibly closer, pressing into Kanan’s body. Alora shifts slightly in Ezra’s hold, still supported by Ezra’s right arm, but sprawling over onto the left side of Kanan’s torso, too.

Kanan closes his eyes and tries to control his feelings, to find his center, but it’s hard, with his emotions running so high so suddenly, with Ezra’s sadness deluging him. He loses track of time, thinking about how _small_ Ezra feels in his hold, thinking about Ezra being seven years old with no one to hold him or make sure he ate his vegetables, thinking about what’s disappearing from Ezra in his dreams. What’s disappeared from his own life.

“Sorry for making you sad,” Ezra whispers into Kanan’s ribs.

“It’s okay,” Kanan says, rubbing his thumb against the point of Ezra’s left shoulder. “It’s okay, kiddo.” Three trillion and three, three trillion and four.

-

Hera’s alarm goes off, her wrist communicator buzzing her awake. Thirty minutes to contact.

Kanan’s side of the bed is cold, obviously untouched. Hera sighs.

She swings her feet to the floor, stretches her arms and her back, then starts getting dressed, stepping into her coveralls and lacing up her boots, fixing her cap over her lekku. She stifles a yawn. She was up too late, is getting up too early – both of these things more commonplace than she cares for, these days.

She glances back at Kanan’s untouched side of the bed, bending to smooth the covers over her side. She’d asked him to take the baby and sleep in his own bunk last night, a request she regrets now that she’s spent all night missing him.

Even after they started falling into bed together, he kept his room, for storage and an office, a place to go and close the door and work or read or meditate, but he’s barely slept there for the better part of the past eight years. A few times, in the early years, they’d fought, and he’d retreated, but she’d always gone after him, called him back. His bunk was more often used for unexpected guests, or for the sick or injured, easier to access than the bunkbeds in the other cabins.

In the past year, though, she’s had to get used to him occasionally sliding out of their bed at night, has had to get used to sometimes finding him in his own bunk in the morning, curled protectively around Ezra’s back, but just because she’s had to get used to it doesn’t mean she likes it.

Hera sighs again. She’s been feeling an unusual sense of foreboding of late, the idea that something is about to change irrevocably. Maybe she shouldn’t have banished him to his bunk last night. Maybe she should be taking advantage of every moment of time together she can find.

Her wrist comm buzzes again; Chopper’s internal alarm has gone off and he’s pushed a text message to her in binary – twenty minutes to contact.

Hera sets off to find Kanan and caf.

She passes Kanan’s door, lingers there, but thinks perhaps caf ought to come first, so she keeps walking, into the galley.

What she finds there stops her in her tracks.

It’s the perfect tableau of human fatherhood in her dejarik booth: The infant sleeps in Ezra’s arms; Ezra sleeps in Kanan’s. The infant’s head rests in the small space between Ezra’s shoulder and Kanan’s; Ezra’s head, resting on Kanan’s chest, rises and falls with Kanan’s breathing.

Hera involuntarily feels her hand rising to cover her mouth. This – this is why she’d asked Kanan to sleep in his own room last night, despite her regrets this morning: This complicated turmoil that bubbles up through her stomach and into her chest, her firm conviction against ever having her own child warring with the yearning for nothing but just that, her own child, with Kanan. She tamps down on her feelings with her sensibilities, with the knowledge that they could never, especially not now, with the rebellion finally off the ground.

It makes her want to blow up the entire Empire.

Kanan’s eyes glide open, wakefulness rushing into them as he meets her gaze. He frowns, small creases appearing between his eyebrows.

“Kanan,” she whispers, unable to look away, unable to move, unable to do anything else in the face of how much she loves him, how much she _wants_.

He tilts his head at her, and she somehow feels him, knows he’s reaching for her in the Force, even though she doesn’t possess the sensitivity to reach back, like she wants to.

“I know, love,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”

Hera screws her eyes closed, clenches her jaw, crosses her arms over her chest.

“Twenty minutes to contact,” she manages, crossing the galley. She keeps her back turned to them as she fills the kettle and sets it on its base, as she pours the packet of instant caf powder into her favorite mug. She braces her palms against the counter as she waits for the water to boil. The kettle sings, and she pours the water in, and she stirs the powder into the water with a spoon, and she takes the first sip, seeking relief, not finding it. She checks her wrist chrono.

“Sixteen minutes,” she says, and she turns to go to the cockpit, finally able to chance another look, that wistful, longing feeling still threatening to paralyze her.

Kanan has moved his left hand from Ezra’s shoulder to the back of his head, running his fingers over Ezra’s hair; Kanan’s right hand has reached across his body to support the infant as Ezra begins to wake, stirring under Kanan’s touch.

Hera tries desperately to push away her melancholic thoughts of the children who never were, who never will be.

“It’s okay,” Kanan murmurs, and at first Hera doesn’t think he’s talking to her, until he lifts his eyes, meets hers. “It’s okay,” he says again, more firmly. He smiles at her, beautiful and sad and loving, all at once.

(Three trillion and five, three trillion and six.)

“I don’t know,” Hera whispers as she heads for the cockpit, caf in hand and mission in mind. “I don’t know, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't tell me Kanan didn't make sure his kid drank his pedialyte, because you know he made sure his kid drank his pedialyte. this is, in fact, the main cause for Ezra's extreme growth spurt between seasons 2 and 3. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> many sweet thanks to [Brahe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/profile) for cheerleading me along <3  
> find me on [tumblr](https://inconocible.tumblr.com/) screaming about Rebels between now and the rest of forever.


End file.
